quiet
by ShadowsOnTheMoon
Summary: But she doesn't look, doesn't see, doesn't understand. She just cries to herself, a banshee without a voice, a girl without her heart. The murmuring in her head grows louder... (or: Stiles meets with Lydia in a cafe to say goodbye, and she tries one last time to save him.)


**Hi! Thanks for taking the time to check out my story. Fair warning: I like darkness and depressing stories and unhappy endings, so if you're looking for something cheerful or uplifting, look elsewhere. This is my second Stydia fic and I'm still getting the hang of writing for this pairing, so if you see something I could improve on, by all means (politely) let me know. This is set after 3x19, so spoilers up until then. The bit in italics at the start is from Hamlet, everything else (aside from the characters/Teen Wolf/all that stuff) is mine. So here we go. Enjoy, and please review. I have a couple of other Teen Wolf stories floating about, so if you like my writing please feel free to check them out. That's all from me for now. On to the story...**

X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X

_I must be cruel, only to be kind:  
Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind._

X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X

It's raining. Of course it's raining.

Lydia's umbrella unfurls like a flower as she steps off the front porch and into the downpour. Within seconds she's shivering, wishing she'd thought to bring a jacket, but it's too late to turn back. She glances at her watch as she hurries down the street. 7.57. Three minutes until she's supposed to be there.

She turns a corner and picks up speed, suddenly overwhelmed by a frantic fear that she'll be too late. How long will he wait for her? What if she misses him?

The fear is accompanied by a murmuring somewhere in the back of her mind. It's not like the whispers she hears when someone's about to die; it's something far more sinister, words she can't quite catch, meanings she can't quite discern. She doesn't feel like screaming. She just wants to cry, and she doesn't understand why.

8.03. She finally arrives at the designated spot, and for a horrible moment it looks like she's alone. Then something stirs in the shadows and out steps Stiles, eyes downcast, clothes dripping with water, a smear of blood across his face. He looks up and the rain washes the blood away in a second.

"You came," he says softly, holding out his hands like he's about to hug her. Then he thinks better of it and they drop to his sides, but he doesn't stop looking at her. _Staring_, like he's taking in every detail, like this is first time he's laid eyes on her – or the last time he'll ever see her.

"I said I would," she responds, crossing the space between them. She positions herself so that they're both under the relative protection of the umbrella, but he steps out from under it, giving her the most melancholy look she's ever seen on him. Her heart lurches. "Stiles, what's wrong?"

He shakes his head, not answering, and somehow that's worse than anything he could have said. He stands there in the rain, water trickling down his cheeks, puddles forming by his feet, and he doesn't say anything.

Finally Lydia breaks the silence. "It's cold out here," she says, "why don't we go inside?"

Stiles doesn't object, doesn't react. Lydia tentatively takes his hand, which seems to jerk him out of his semi-stupor, and he follows her mutely down the street. She leads the way into the nearest open café, a small place with nobody else in it and pictures of cats wearing bow ties adorning the walls. She sits down in the booth near the door, and Stiles obediently sits down across from her.

"What's going on?" she asks. "You told me to meet you here, but you didn't explain why."

He opens and closes his mouth a few times, and she can't tell if he's trying to speak or just struggling to breathe. He lowers his gaze again, fiddles with a packet of sugar.

"Good evening, folks," says a waitress who smells like brandy and looks like she stepped off the cover of a magazine. "What can I get for you?"

Since Stiles is almost catatonic Lydia orders for both of them, even flashes the waitress a smile that almost passes for sincere. When they're alone again Lydia reaches out, placing her hand on top of Stiles'. He jerks back at once, shoving his hands under the table like he's appalled by the thought of her touching him.

Undaunted, she persists. "Stiles, is this… is this really you?"

His eyes snap up to hers. "What?"

She has his attention at last, but the intensity of his gaze almost makes her shiver. "The exorcism that the… that the pack did. It did _work_, didn't it?"

Just over a week ago, the McCall pack had gathered all its forces and cornered Stiles – or rather the thing that was inhabiting his body – before throwing at him the most powerful exorcism spell they could find. It had seemed to work, judging by the copious amounts of black smoke that had poured from Stiles' mouth, and the way he'd screamed as he fell to the floor afterward. Since then things have been normal, but in Beacon Hills it's hard to tell

"Yeah," he says quickly, and then, just as quickly, "No."

Lydia pales. Instinctively her hand clenches around the steak knife on the table, even though she knows she could never use it against Stiles, against anything that even _looked_ like Stiles. The waitress returns with their drinks, and Lydia makes an effort to feign normalcy. She lets go of the knife, makes polite chitchat with the waitress, encourages Stiles to talk. But as soon as the waitress leaves again, Lydia grabs the knife.

"Who are you?" she asks, her voice almost a growl.

"It's me." Stiles holds up his hands in surrender. "I swear, it's me. The… that _thing_ is still inside me, but I'm in control – for now."

Lydia's hand relaxes ever so slightly, but she doesn't let go of her weapon. "Why didn't the spell work?"

"I don't know." Stiles slumps back against the seat. "It _felt_ like it was working, and for a couple days afterward I thought I was actually alone."

"But now it's back?"

"And pissed."

Silence falls over them, aside from the whir of a coffee machine and the pitter-patter of rain on the windows. Lydia closes her eyes, letting the knowledge sink in. They'd failed; they hadn't saved Stiles. He's still in danger, and if the demon takes over here -

"Are you sure it's safe for me to be meeting you?" Her attempt at nonchalance results in her voice trembling, and she hates herself for it.

"It's okay," he assures her. He leans forward, running a finger along the rim of his coffee cup. "We have an… understanding."

Alarm shoots through Lydia, making her sit up straighter. "What kind of understanding?"

Instead of answering her question, Stiles changes the subject. "Do you remember that party we went to, at Joseph Barry's house?"

Memories float back to Lydia, hazy and distorted with the passing of time. "I didn't know you then."

"I know." Stiles takes a sip of his coffee, and Lydia tries not to notice the fact that his hand is shaking. "I knew you, though. You were there with Jackson, and after a few drinks I think I actually threatened to punch him. If Scott hadn't stopped me, I might have."

"No you wouldn't have," Lydia says gently, causing Stiles to laugh.

"No, I wouldn't have," he agrees. "I've always been more for talking than action."

"So what about the party?"

"You were wearing this strappy red dress," Stiles recalls, his eyes getting a faraway look and his voice becoming dreamy. "And I remember you went outside at one point, and about five different guys offered you their jackets, but you just waved them all away and stood there in the cold by yourself."

"It was a beautiful night. I wanted to look at the stars."

Stiles looks at her over the rim of his coffee cup, a smile playing around the edges of his mouth. "You were muttering the constellations under your breath, because you thought no one could hear you."

Lydia ducks her head, the memory coming back to her in full. That had been back before she'd let herself flourish, back when she was still being the person she thought everyone wanted her to be. "But you heard."

Stiles' smile blossoms until it takes over his entire face. Lydia smiles back, and for a moment, just a moment, everything feels okay.

Then Stiles says, "I'm sorry," and the spell is broken.

"Why are you apologizing?" Lydia's grip on the knife tightens again, and she sees Stiles' eyes flick to it, sees the understanding, sees the gentle reassurance.

"I love you more than you will ever know," he says solemnly, and Lydia blinks at him, completely unprepared for declarations of love in empty coffee shops. "I wouldn't have made it this far without you, and I don't know what I can do to thank you."

With a nervous laugh, Lydia says, "Stiles, this sounds like you're saying goodbye."

"Because I am." He looks away again, but not before he catches the shock that flits across Lydia's face. "I'm leaving. Tonight."

"What -" she chokes out, "why -"

"You saw what happened last time this thing took over," Stiles says, lowering his voice with a glance back at the waitress, who pretends she wasn't trying to eavesdrop. "I almost killed Scott and Kira, and I – the thing inside me – _enjoyed_ it. I don't want to hurt anyone else, Lydia. I can't. The things it made me do – the things it _wanted_ me to do – I can't, it's too much."

Again, Lydia reaches for him; and this time he doesn't shy away. "Leaving isn't going to solve that. If you stay here we can figure out a way to cure you for real, and -"

"It's too late," he interrupts firmly. "There's nothing any of you can do. It's already done."

"Done?" Lydia echoes, feeling ice-cold fingers grip her heart. Everything about this feels wrong wrong wrong, and her desire to cry rises up again, such an unwelcome urge that she reaches for a napkin and scrunches it in her hand. Then she looks up at Stiles, her heart sinking. When she speaks, her voice is hardly more than a whisper. "Stiles, what did you do?"

"I made a deal," he says simply, as if that will be enough.

It isn't, it isn't even close. "What kind of deal? Please, Stiles, what -"

"It doesn't matter."

"It does matter. Stiles, please, you're scaring me."

At that he takes one of her hands in both of his, and he meets her eyes again. "It's okay," he says softly. "It's all going to be okay. I told you, I made a deal, and as long as I -"

"_What_ deal?" she cuts in, her voice hard. She's not angry at him, she could never be, but she's terrified. The murmurs in her head are louder now but still unclear, and she wants to run, somewhere far away. But she can't, not without the boy sitting across from her.

Sensing that she's in no mood to argue, Stiles sighs. "The demon offered me a deal," he explains carefully. "It said that it wouldn't go near my friends and family – that I'd even get to say goodbye to everyone – in exchange for…"

He trails off. Lydia narrows her eyes. "In exchange for _what_?"

For a second it looks like Stiles is going to try to change the topic again, but, wisely, he decides against it. "I'm leaving Beacon Hills tonight, and I'm not coming back."

The words themselves are heartbreaking enough, but Lydia catches the deeper meaning, the one she isn't sure Stiles intended for her to hear. "You're not coming back," she whispers, pulling her hand away from his. She clasps her hands in her lap, tries to stop her heart from hammering in her chest. "You're going to let that _thing_ take over?"

"It's the only way," Stiles says, pleading with her, begging her to understand

She doesn't, she could never. What happened to the boy who used to fight for what he believed in, who used to stand up to evil no matter how hard it knocked him down? "You can't do this," she says, and she's pleading too. "Please, you can't do this. We'll find a way to save you, we -"

Lydia breaks off as Stiles frowns, his face twisting into a mask of pain, clutching his head with both his hands. "It's coming," he mumbles.

Her heart catching in her throat, Lydia watches as Stiles fights off the darkness, fighting for just one more moment with her. To her surprise she realizes she's crying, but she doesn't try to wipe the tears away.

After a minute Stiles exhales deeply, wearily. "I only have a couple of minutes left," he says.

Lydia becomes deathly still. A couple of minutes? That's not enough, it's too soon, she needs more time. "Don't do this," she says. "Please don't do this. We can still save you."

He looks up at her now, and he offers her half a smile. "You already have," he says. "And now it's my turn to save you."

Then he leans forward and kisses her, and in her surprise she almost pulls away. Then she closes her eyes and kisses him back, passionately, longingly, willing him not to let go. But he does, and there's such an exquisite sadness in his eyes that she loses her breath.

"Thank you," he says, and she's crying again. He reaches out, his thumb brushing her cheek, wiping the tears away. She rests her hand on his, closes her eyes, inhales his scent. She never wants this moment to end, she doesn't want to have to say goodbye. She doesn't want to forget. "I need to go now," he says quietly, glancing at the clock. 8.49.

"No." She keeps holding his hand. "I'm not letting you go."

"You don't have a choice," he says tightly, trying to pull his hand away. "Lydia, just let me -"

Then before her eyes he's changing again, and she knows it's too late. Her grip loosens and she watches as Stiles doubles over, clutching at his head, moaning softly.

"I love you," he mutters, and she doesn't even have time to say it back before it's all over. Stiles – no, he's not Stiles anymore – straightens up, smooths his wrinkled shirt, tilts his head quizzically at her.

Lydia glances down at her hand, realizing that she's clutching at his shirt, desperately trying to hang on.

"Let go," he – it – commands.

"No," she says, the strong word losing its touch due to the tremor in her voice. "Not until you bring Stiles back."

He rolls his eyes, and in one swift movement she finds herself flung against the wall. Before she can say a word he's on his feet, and with one lingering glance he's gone, leaving her crying alone in a coffee shop. She stays where she is, frozen, not daring to look at him. She can't bear to see him walk away.

But if she had looked, she would have seen him step out the door and then hesitate, deflating, hating himself for this – his last well-intentioned deceit. She would see that he's still Stiles, that he only pretended so that she would let him go. She would hear him utter the words "You can take me now" and she would see him slip away forever.

But she doesn't look, doesn't see, doesn't understand. She just cries to herself, a banshee without a voice, a girl without her heart. The murmuring in her head grows louder, louder, unbearably loud, until suddenly –

– it stops.

X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X


End file.
